


That slight smile

by RedChucks



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: A slice of life, M/M, Post Series, Smut, Strap-Ons, Swearing, Trans Characters, cos you can’t stop me making all my favs trans, mild sexy times, post window jump, trans!Jones, trans!dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: Sort of a follow on from “Never should have strayed.” Dan is a mess who thinks that everything is shit. Everything except for Jones of course.My favourite boys in their trans incarnations, reminiscing on happy times and sexy times.“ Eyelids half closed, Dan slouched back against the aged and sagging sofa cushions, the smallest of smiles flickering across his lips and settling in his eyes. Life was shit, there was no denying it. It was shit, it was fucked, it was fucking shit. His hip was hurting again and early that day he’d been triggered into a panic attack by the sight of a man who only looked like Barley, which was just fucking embarrassing. Yeah, life, by and large, could only be described as shit. But that didn’t stop the smile that continued to flicker like a stubborn flame as he watched Jones dance behind his decks in the corner of the room. Because there was no point in denying now that moments of peace, moments of happiness even, did exist.”
Relationships: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	That slight smile

Eyelids half closed, Dan slouched back against the aged and sagging sofa cushions, the smallest of smiles flickering across his lips and settling in his eyes. Life was shit, there was no denying it. It was shit, it was fucked, it was fucking shit. His hip was hurting again and early that day he’d been triggered into a panic attack by the sight of a man who only looked like Barley, which was just fucking embarrassing. Yeah, life, by and large, could only be described as shit. But that didn’t stop the smile that continued to flicker like a stubborn flame as he watched Jones dance behind his decks in the corner of the room. Because there was no point in denying now that moments of peace, moments of happiness even, did exist. 

He watched Jones punch his fists in the air, eyes closed tight and bottom lip caught in his Bowie-esque teeth as he moved to a beat that Dan could only just hear leaking from the oversized headphones Jones had been favouring that month. Dan’s brain was fuzzy, from the two shots of cheap whiskey in his system, the lateness of the hour, the lingering adrenaline deficit of his most recent panic attack, but mostly from Jones, whose presence was a kind of soft lens on Dan’s life. 

His memory was fuzzy too, but he was fairly certain that Jones had always had this sort of effect on him, even when they’d been young and fumbling - blushing, cringeworthy boys - as opposed to the old, sure handed, occasionally still cringeworthy men they’d become, with each other at least. Dan couldn’t claim to be confident or even vaguely capable in most areas of his life, but his hands suffered no hesitation when it came to touching Jones’ skin these days, which was an accomplishment in its way, he supposed. And even if there were gaps in a good portion of his memories, Jones stood out in them like a beacon. 

Watching the sway of the man’s hips, Dan let his eyes trace the trail of hair that led from Jones’ belly button down to his low riding belt buckle. The Jones he’d first been introduced to all that way back when would never have felt so free as to dance like that, in a shredded tee that showed off half his stomach and guided the eye down to his groin. Twenty year old Jones had been too self-conscious of his hips and the persistent lack of hair, no matter how often Dan reminded him that he had nothing to be ashamed of, and that once he got in to the midst of his second, Real, puberty, the hair would come and the fat distribution would change. Jones had been so sure, back then, of his own inadequacy. How the tables had turned.

Dan was pretty sure that he’d actually been a decent and supportive friend back then. A decent human being. He wasn’t so sure anymore, but for some reason Jones had still stuck around and that alone sustained Dan’s hope for the future. Letting his eyes track lazily lower, Dan wet his lips at the sight of the bulge in Jones’ trousers. His mind immediately sent him back to the first time Jones had exchanged the packer in his jeans for a harness with a hard-on. It had been an experience. 

Crying during sex could never be a good thing, or so Dan had thought at the time. It either meant you were doing a terrible job or that your partner was in very much the wrong headspace for sex, Dan trusted his moral compass on that point. And at first, when he’d taken a break from moaning like an amateur porn star and looked up to see tears streaming down Jones’ face as his hips snapped and rolled and filled Dan to bursting, his instinct had been to call an end to things. He didn’t want Jones crying. He didn’t want to think that them having sex - that having sex with Dan - was so terrible or disappointing that it brought tears to Jones’ eyes.

He’d brought a hand up to Jones’ cheek, wiping at the tears and trying to give some comfort, a strange and rather difficult task given he was flat on his back on the bed with his legs in the air, getting railed by his best mate. Jones, in response, had turned to kiss his palm, smiling so wide that Dan felt his heart skip a beat, jolting him stronger than the thrust of the silicone cock in his arse.

“You okay?” he’d gasped out, struggling to breathe let alone talk as Jones’ hips refused to slow or falter in their rhythm (there was nothing that could compare to Jones’ ability to find a rhythm and stick to it). “You’re crying.”

Jones responded with a huff of laughter, kissing Dan’s palm again and nuzzling his cheek against it, his whole face a renaissance painting of pure joy, even as the tears continued.

“I feel... good,” he’d said eventually, another laugh escaping his swollen lips, his voice hoarse and deep enough in itself to up Dan’s pleasure. “I never thought I’d feel... good... doing anything like this. Oh, fuck!”

Dan had nodded, rolling his hips with even greater force as he acknowledged that Jones didn’t need him to stop. He thought he understood, though he didn’t suffer from the same loathing and disconnection Jones felt for his ‘downstairs mix-up’ (Jones’ words, not his) he had spent most of his life wondering whether he would ever enjoy sex. Turned out all he’d needed was the right person paired with the right accessories. The person being Jones and the accessories being Jones’ strap-on lodged in his arse and a rather impressive vibe lodged between his clit and his own harness-held cock. It was surprising to feel this good, he agreed, to feel aroused without anxiety,and to be able to do something about it without the dysphoria getting in the way. It was also so, so welcome.

That had been the night Jones had discovered that he could orgasm, on his own, and feel good about it. It was also the night they’d realised that they were both capable of multiple orgasms. Dan’s physiotherapist had been deeply concerned when Dan had arrived at her office for his weekly appointment only two days later, still limping, with a strained muscle in the thigh of his dodgy leg, but Dan had considered it worth the embarrassment. The majority of his life was just a series of embarrassing episodes after all, but when it came to his first night in bed with Jones, he had no regrets. Except maybe that they hadn’t come clean with each other about their feelings earlier. They missed out on years, it seemed, and Dan couldn’t help but think that enthusiastic, marathon sex would have been easier before he’d jumped out of the Trashbat window and permanently wrecked his leg and hip. 

He’d walked away from that physio appointment with a page of suggested bedroom warm up and cool down exercises as well as illustrations of positions which would put the least amount of strain on his weakened muscles and joints. That, and a raging blush that even his scruffy beard couldn’t hide. His physio was a surprisingly good artist, all things considered, but he would have preferred stick figure drawings over ones that actually looked vaguely like him and his “sexy DJ boy”, as the woman had put it.

Jones had cackled at the pictures, but had taken the advice to heart, which was a good thing, considering how high his libido seemed to be once freed of the anxiety and loathing he had been carrying around with him with regards to sex. Without the additional stretches and massage afterwards, Dan wasn’t sure how he would have coped. Now, his physio was impressed with his recovery and Dan was feeling almost fitter than he’d felt half a decade ago.

Life was still, Dan staunchly held, mostly shit. Even if he had Shoreditch’s sexiest man dancing like a drunk monkey in front of him. He had plenty of examples. He was going to need more surgery for his damned hip in a few months. He was still entirely socially inept and was yet to make it through a job interview without his anxiety getting the better of him. SugarApe still hadn’t quite given up on their mission to bury his good name in shit in every issue of their nauseating magazine. (not that Dan believed he’d ever had a ‘good name’. It had always been at least a little grubby.) He was on a healthy eating plan as part of his mental health recovery that only allowed for a quarter of the alcohol he’d once enjoyed and which included vegetables that Jones couldn’t pronounce and Dan couldn’t stomach. There was a leak in the hallway ceiling that was getting progressively worse but which neither he or Jones knew how to fix. The internet still existed and was getting measurably worse. Oh yeah, there was plenty of evidence that life and the world and everything was shit.

But at that moment Jones opened his eyes and smiled at him, biting his bottom lip in an expression of pure glee at what he had created on his gaff taped, frankensteined, decks. It would either be ear destroying or transcendent, there was no way to tell until it was done and Jones chose to unleash it, and Dan grinned back, knowing he’d get it stuck in his head either way, and that even the thought of Jones entrusting him with his next masterpiece made the love he felt for the man increase. 

He jumped a little in surprise when Jones came bounding over to him and straddled his legs, trapping him willingly on the sofa and rubbing his crooked nose against Dan’s long one. Dan felt his smile widen as the memory of the first time Jones had managed to get his nose broken in a fight. He’d been devastated and had looked up at Dan as they left the A&E, begging him to tell the truth, to tell him how bad it looked. They’d been friends for a little over a year at the time and it had taken more self control than Dan thought he possessed to keep from wiping away the poor idiot’s tears and kissing his frown away. Instead he’d leaned in close to Jones’ ear to whisper to him that a broken nose would make him look masculine as fuck. Jones’ watery, grateful, smile had made Dan wonder why he could only ever seem to say the right thing when he was talking to Jones and no one else.

Back in the present, but wrapped warmly in pleasant memories for once, Dan leaned forward to capture Jones’ lips in a kiss. Jones was in a playful mood and Dan knew he would give the man whatever he wanted, for however long he wanted it, but first he wanted a moment, just a little moment to be stupidly sentimental. God knew it happened rarely enough. 

“I love you,” he muttered in to Jones’ open mouth between kisses, feeling Jones inhale in the most intoxicating way at the simple words. It wasn’t the first time he’d said them but it happened rarely enough, and randomly enough, that it was always a pleasant surprise. 

“I know,” Jones answered eventually, pressing hard kisses to Dan’s lips as he began to grind down on Dan’s lap with his hips.

Dan huffed a laugh as he ran his hands up under Jones’ weak excuse for a t-shirt to slide over his skin. “Thanks, Hahn Solo.”

Jones cackled at that and Dan took the opportunity to press a kiss to his exposed neck, a kiss which quickly became a deep, sucking, bite that transformed Jones’ laughter in to a moan. Dan pulled him in closer, losing himself happily in the sound and movement and friction of Jones. 

“Fuck!” the man above him groaned, and Dan had to agree. The world outside was shit - complete and utter fucking shit. It was fucked. But he, Dan Ashcroft, was about to get fucked, and he had no complaints about that.


End file.
